The Treatment and the Cure Read Online Free PDF Page A

“They’ll probably tear The Wild Man to bits!” “It’s his own fault. Won’t keep his bloody whistle in workin’ order.”
    They both look solemnly at The Wild Man. “Yer in a tight corner, mate.” “Up shit creek!” “Without a paddle.”
    Bill and Ray make a show of conferring together.
    “D’you reckon we can do anything?”
    “We’ll do what we can.”
    “But we can’t promise anything.”
    “No.”
    “We might be able to save him from gettin’ killed.” “Just depends.”
    “He might get hurt pretty bad.”
    “Luck of the game.”
    “He’s not a bad sort of a bloke.”
    “Good fella.”
    “Except for his temper.”
    “I forgot about that.”
    “Ya can’t hold him when he gets goin’.”
    “He goes berserk.”
    “He might go off any minute.”
    “Look at his face.”
    “It’s turnin’ savage.”
    “Blow the whistle, mate.”
    “Can’t. The fuckin’ pea’s lost!”
    The Wild Man is still grinning. Sheepish. He’s used to this. There’s a musical show on, and a beautiful girl is singing “Help Me Make it Through the Night”. The camera is right up on her face and lips and you can see the little throbbing pulse in her throat when she sings the long notes, and when the camera draws back, you see the swell of breasts out of her dress and then her leg through a slit at the side. The men are all quiet, watching, not wanting the song to stop.
    You’re not thinking about sex, exactly, but about something more, something harder to put into words, as though the girl isn’t just one girl, but all the girls and women in the world wrapped into herself. You keep your eyes on her until the song’s finished and then you realise you’re feeling miserable all of a sudden. A drama show comes on, with police cars and sirens and a lot of punching and chasing up fire escapes. It seems stupid. You stand looking out of the window at the dark night. There are some trees being blown by the wind. If you listen carefully when the television goes quiet for a moment you can hear the chain of the main gate clanking whenever a big gust comes.
    At eight o’clock the two night screws come in with the tea-urn. One of them is called Eddie. He’s got a sharp face and a way of sneering when he speaks. His favourite word is “fuck”. but he pronounces it “faaark”. like the cry of a crow.
    “Faaark, you blokes have it easy,” Eddie says to us. “Nobody brings me a cuppa, not even me faaarkin missus.”
    “Well, you wouldn’t be bringin’ us one either if it wasn’t in the regulations,” says Ray Hoad. Ray isn’t afraid of screws.
    “Faaarkin oath I wouldn’t!” says Eddie. “If I was in control I’d have all you faaarkin blokes put down.”
    “Thousands ’ud agree with ya,” says Ray Hoad.
    “That’s faaarkin right. Why should the taxpayers be keepin’ you cunts in food and clothes?”
    “If it wasn’t for us, you’d be out of a job.”
    “Don’t faaarkin kid yerself!”
    Everyone is pretending that this is just a bit of friendly banter.
    “Hitler had the right faaarkin idea. Crims, pervs, poofters, all into the faaarkin oven.”
    “What about morons?” says Bill Greene, looking directly at Eddie.
    “Faaarkin morons too!”
    Eddie and the other screw go out and lock the door behind them.
    “Faaark. Faaark. Faaark,” croaks Bill Greene, flapping his elbows like a giant crow. Then he farts loudly.
    At nine-thirty we’re put to bed. After the screws have gone and everything is quiet, you lie listening to the wind. The moon is near the top of your window and throws a silver sheen against the foot of the bed. You sleep for a while. Then you are awake and someone is shouting from one of the cells. George Pratt is yelling that the “Sallies” are after him. He’s got an obsession about the Salvation Army, and often shouts in the night like this. Voices from other cells are telling him to shut up. Then you hear the screws in the corridor, and Eddie’s voice.
    “Shut yer